The Line

The Line
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

“All right swingers!,” shouted DJ Dork. “This next one is for the ladies!”

My hyper-sexual blonde wife, Diana, jumped off her bar stool and reached the dance floor with a wiggle before DJ Dork had finished speaking. I leaned back, took a long drink and enjoyed the raucous sexy scene.  The space burst with sound and light and a steady stream of sexiness, flashes of nipples and bums, grabs and rubs and moans mingled into the thumping sparks of gyrating lust. I relaxed. I felt at home.

Dirty Diana bumped and ground with a stimulated energy, so eager to be there, so happy you came. Tits slipped in and out of sight. Her bottom swung and presented in rhythmic combinations. The dance floor surrounded her, swallowed her and she glowed with the radiance of their attentions. Hands groped and lips kissed. I took another swig of watery whiskey and smiled. My cock swelled inside my loose pants.

Emerging from the thick half-naked crowd, Diana had found a partner, a tiny long-legged red-head in a short, short skirt that couldn’t contain her white pantied tightly-toned ass. Each beat teased my fascinated stare while the two pretty women turned, twisted, bounced, bumped, spread, twirled and taunted with mouth-watering erotic sizzle. The song came to an end and I entered the dance floor, ready to know more.

Silver, the red-head in question, danced and soon darted away with a smile. Captivated, I followed her, weaving through masses of semi-naked flesh to see her climb up steps to mount a tall speaker. With cool detachment, she began to dance, her satin pantied booty clocking mesmerizing circles over a crowd of aging swinger guys. One offered her a dollar and I shook my head in embarrassment for him and for us all. That was no way to treat a ballerina. She ignored the tip and I felt myself mesmerized by hints of her nipples through a tight white knit shirt. With a sigh of adoration, I made my way back to our table.

“She has a boyfriend,” said her husband who had excitedly followed Diana back to our table. I looked over again at the vixen dancing on the speaker. She looked tough, cruel, assertive in her incredible beauty. I hardly dared imagine what it might mean to go there. She descended from the speaker and navigated the crowd over to join her husband.

“And this is her husband,” he said after the rest of the introductions. Silver stood close to me in the darkness. Her nearness, her insane beauty, dazzled my senses. She felt irritated, angry even and nervously eager to leave. I leaned closer and spoke the truth. She needed to hear it and what did I have to lose?

“You are the sexiest woman I have ever seen in my entire life.”

Her intensity broke and she looked surprised, even laughed a little.

“We have to go,” her husband said. “Time to let the dogs out.” Before I could say another word, they darted out the door.


Four weeks later, we arrived at the next party. We picked a table and made ourselves at home. A few tables away sat the same couple, Silver and her man. A happy smile greeted me as I caught Silver’s eye. Her husband went in pursuit of Diana, herself in pursuit of a dozen possible choices. I led Silver to the dance floor. It was like we had always known each other.

While we danced, embracing, I caressed her breasts and back and bottom through her thin pants. Zoom, in a second, her bra came off and went sailing to the table. I felt her nipples harden and I sighed in wanton surrender. This was what I wanted. This was where I needed to be.

I slipped my hand into her pants, reaching down past a scruff of hair to feel the parting vulva start. I pushed on and navigated into the furrow, further flew. Silver reached into her pants and parted her lips to guide me into the velvet wetness of her moist cunt.

“My husband said I wasn’t very friendly last time we met. I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

I fingered her for four hours on the dance floor, until it was time to go home.

Then 9-11 happened. 9-11 changed everything.

Long story short: seventeen years later, I’m still fingering her. We’ve really never been apart.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in ballet, books, dance, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, reading, short stories, swinging, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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